


swallow him whole like a pill

by BitchFaceSam



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 2014, End!verse, M/M, Samifer - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-12
Updated: 2012-10-12
Packaged: 2017-11-16 03:26:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/534963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BitchFaceSam/pseuds/BitchFaceSam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just like every life ends, just like the earth spins continuously without stop, it seems in every reality Sam says yes. Dean wonders, he really does, if there’s ever a time when Sam truly says no forever. If there had been a right path for Dean to take and he just fucked it up somehow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	swallow him whole like a pill

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theslashinator](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=theslashinator).



> not happy. end!verse never is.

Dean remembers a time when his hands were bigger than Sam’s. When he could wrap his fingers around Sammy’s and pull his hand away from the stove and hiss at him, ‘Be careful,’ and Sam would listen because Dean was his older brother and Sam knew that when Dean was serious, it meant he’d better listen because Dean was always right.

Dean always being right never changed. Sam just stopped listening.

He’s ready this time. The angels did him the biggest favor in the world, showing him the bleak future of twenty fourteen. Now they‘ll be completely prepared. He knows who to rally, where, what supplies to stock up on for months _before_ the outbreak. Dean knows to keep Cas away from meth and Chuck away from the liquor. He even knows to not let anyone with a gun a mile near Bobby and his chair, not even himself.

The only thing left is to never let Sam out of his sight. He’s still not sure _why_ Sam said yes, but that’s not important. Dean won’t let it happen twice.

o O o O o O o

It starts great. Everyone is at Chitaqua when the outbreak happens. There’s enough toilet paper and dried goods to last them for years, and the population is five, maybe even six times greater than what his ‘other’ self was proud to have saved. They’re prepared and expecting every move. Raids go off without a hitch, supply runs are effortless. Everyone is together and the three of them, Dean, Sam, and Cas, they work like a machine. They’re perfect.  
  
Dean hates to admit it, but he’s almost happy. Happier than he’d been in a long, long time, anyway. There’s something soothing about having a routine, about the feeling of Cas and Sam behind him, hard and trained and _there_. Dean’s _family_. For once, all his petty self-esteem issues are gone. The Devil is out there, sure, but not nearly as powerful as he could be, and they’re secure and Dean knows in his heart that Sam’s not going to leave him again.

o O o O o O o

It’s two years of this, this shaken but somehow stable world Dean’s found himself thrust into. The camp is like a village, they all have their shortages and their small bickers, but they rely on each other and the trust each person has for the Winchesters and a Fallen Angel to keep their lives safe makes Dean feel like something he hadn’t thought of himself as for years. A hero.

It feels more like home than any motel or apartment Dean has ever stayed in. It was awkward at first, having their own cabin. A room to place belongings that are going to stay put for more than a week. Coming home each night to the same bed, to crawl between sheets and curl into the dip in the mattress that’s perfectly fitted to his body.

He doesn’t even mind sharing the space with Sam and Cas. Maybe they work off all their frustration and energy during the day, so when they finally stumble through the door, they’re content to drink a beer and just relax, safe in their room.

Dean suspects it’s what the Angels showed him that gets the thoughts turning in his head. It’s the same feeling that pools in his gut every time someone reminds him how incestuously codependent him and Sammy are.  He’d always thought of Cas as child-like. There was just something so different about him than the way the other Angels had been, something that reminded Dean of when Sammy was younger. Something to protect.  Sam had grown up and left him, hadn’t needed Dean like he’d used to. He had grown into a man who’d never need Dean in that way ever again. Dean isn’t stupid. He knows who he’s attracted to.

He’s thinking about it now, the blissed-out, stoned look on Cas’s face and the mention of so much sex that Dean’s head had spun. Dean’s got skin mags under his bed, but both Sam and Cas are asleep only feet away, and he’d made a promise to himself early on not to sleep with girls in camp like it was going out of style. Hard to have a one night stand with someone only to wake up and see them every day until one of you died, regardless of how probable death was.

Dean shifts, the act of not thinking about Castiel taking a group of beautiful people into a room and worshiping their bodies with his mouth is causing the blood to rush straight to Dean’s cock. After a few moments of discomfort, he shakes his head and gets off his bed, bare feet curling against the chill of the wooden floor.  He steps over Cas’s yoga mat.  
  
There’s a stash of joints in his dresser. And tomorrow is just routine work about camp, so really, it’s a day off. Dean grabs two and heads back to his bed.  
  
“Hey,” a sudden whisper startles him and Dean’s head whips around, eyes scanning the room in the darkness.

Dean’s muscles clench for a moment, body tensing on instinct before he relaxes and looks towards Cas, the man’s hair, shaggier than ever, hanging in front of his eyes.

“You gonna share that?” Cas’s smile is almost like a grin, coy and practiced and, not bittersweet like stale coffe,  as it had been in that _other_ future, but something all Dean’s own. A Cas who’d gotten help from him and Sammy when he’d fallen, not a cold, calculating Dean that brushed him off and ignored him. Not the treatment of a Dean who’d lost his brother.

“Wasn’t going to,” Dean drawls, making his way to Sam’s bed to shake his brother awake, “but now that you’re up, looks like I’m gonna have to.”

Sam’s a light sleeper, and soon, the three of them are sitting on Cas’s bed because it’s in the corner, their backs against the wall and each sitting cross-legged. The bed is small, Cas’s knee touches Dean’s right knee and Sam is pressed against his left.

They smoke the weed slowly, letting it fog the air around them.  Dean is warm and, between the two of them, he feels like this is the closest he’s ever been to love.

o O o O o O o

Things go downhill the day Sam kisses him.

It’s been a while, longer than usual, since they’d heard of any type of movement from Lucifer. It was nice, but it was also freaking Dean the fuck out. Saying ‘on edge,’ was a bit of understatement. He was wound tight like a coil, desperation and apprehension jerking his movements. Cas noticed. He wasn’t sure what set him off, neither of them could ever tell, but he sent Dean home to get some rest and Sam, because it was what they _did_ , went with him. Dean was always nervous when he couldn’t see Sam.

Dean’s pacing around the room, wincing every few steps because he wasn’t perfect and a croate had sliced a pretty line down his thigh earlier in the week. Sam’s stitches were damn near professional but that didn’t make the pain from the pull of flesh around each stitch lessen any.

Sam sits and watches at first, brow furrowed as his eyes are trained on Dean, watching Dean’s anger at being angry for no reason fester.

“Maybe you should take some Vicodin,” Sam finally offers with a shrug. “I mean, I know you like to keep a clear head during the day, but Cas and Bobby can run things today.”

Dean starts to protest, then stops and hesitates before sighing and making his way to the bed. “Yeah, sure, Sammy. The fucking itching is driving me nuts, maybe it’ll dull it a little.”

Sam fishes the pills out of their dresser; they keep a lot of things in there, and then pours Dean a glass of water from a jug they keep on a old crate. The water comes from a well, but they’re long used to the taste.

There are sixteen pills in the baggie. Dean swallows down three and chases them with the water, drinking half the cup. He offers the bag and Dixie Cup to Sam.

“Dean,” Sam’s face scrunches in protest, “I’m not even hurt, we should save those for a time when we _actually_ need them.”

“Oh come on, Samantha, no use being high if no one else is there to enjoy it with you. Just shut up and swallow them.” Dean’s stretched out on Sam’s bed like a giant cat, limbs lax but the muscle shining through just as adamantly.

And Sam, because he really does miss the times they’d sit in the Impala and kill an afternoon or two, parked in the woods and sucking down whatever little pills dad would leave laying around the house, takes them into his hand. Some trips had been bad, but some had been fantastic. And these were just Vicodin. He knew exactly what to look forward to.

They’re dry and scratchy and taste like chemicals as they slide down his throat.

Before long, Sam’s reading some Neil Gaiman book, back against Dean’s side as they share Sam’s bed. Dean’s eyes are closed, but Sam feels his irregular breathing and light sighs. Dean’s awake. Six chapters in, Sam begins to feel sluggish. He closes the book, leaning over to tuck it beneath the bed, and then rolls over to look at Dean’s face.

Dean hasn’t opened his eyes, even with all Sam’s moving, so Sam watches him for a minute. He stares at the freckles across Dean’s nose, he stares at the bridge, crooked from being broken so many times. Sam takes in every crease and every scar until Dean opens his eyes.

“Jesus, Sammy,” Dean starts, throwing a hand up to cover his face. “You’re freaking me out a little. I didn’t know you were being such a creep.”

Sam chuckles. “You have done much creepier things, don’t even get me started.”

Dean protests, but Sam ignores him, opting to lean onto Dean’s chest and tuck his face into the crook of Dean’s neck. They’d finally gotten into this ‘comfortable with touching again’ fragility that had shattered when Sam left him. Dean finally shuts up and wraps an arm around Sam’s middle. It’s kind of funny, considering how huge he is, to see Sam cuddling up to Dean like he’s six.

 “Dean,” Sam says after a few minutes, his voice suddenly frightened and panicky. Dean can feel his body tense.

“Yeah, Sam?” Dean’s voice is calm. He runs a hand along Sam’s back in soothing, circular motions.

Sam doesn’t say anything, just pulls back enough for Dean to see the look on his face. Dean’s heart stops. Sam looks younger than he has in years. Maybe it’s the fear. But Dean, at this moment, is more scared for his younger brother than he ever has in his life. He instantly regrets taking any kind of pills. He’s got to protect Sam. What if Lucifer attacked them right now? He’s groggy and dazed and warm and slow. How would that be any help against an angel, even one that was practically wearing a corpse?

Before Dean can ask again what’s wrong, Sam’s lips are on his. They’re hesitant, there’s almost no pressure, but they feel like fire and Dean’s stomach drops, literally drops, as if it’s sinking clear to the floor, and farther. Down, down, down.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. They’re adults now. Dean’s not interested in Sam anymore (he pushes thoughts of Cas from his mind), Sam’s straight, they’re _brothers._ They’re trying to stop the _devil_ ,they don’t _need_ this right now. It was bad enough when they were young and could blame it on close proximity and hormones and being stuck in the back of a car together.

It’s only been thirty seconds of awkward lip touching and Dean’s already getting hard.

Maybe this is the perfect excuse. Later, they can blame in on the drugs, or from neither of them getting laid in months. Dean squashes the small voice in his head telling him that maybe, just maybe, he could have Sam and actually _keep_ him this time. That they could start this up again and it wouldn’t get weird, Sam wouldn’t freak out and run to Stanford, that they could really try and make things work. Dean’s scared. It’s finally clicking into place. If they do this, and it doesn’t work, the only place Sam’s going to have to run to is straight into the Devil’s arms.

Dean opens his mouth.

They’re grinding against each other, then, Sam pushing down against Dean as he trails his fingers along Dean’s sides. Dean’s got his hands cupped over Sam’s ass, trying to pull him closer.

They cum quickly and frantically, reminiscent of the dirty, heavy petting they’d done in the dark as teenagers. They pass out before they have a chance to regret anything.

o O o O o O o

Just like every life ends, just like the earth spins continuously without stop, it seems in every reality Sam says yes. Dean wonders, he really does, if there’s ever a time when Sam truly says no forever. If there _had been_ a right path for Dean to take and he just fucked it up somehow.

Cas doesn’t say much. Can’t say much. The blown, drugged induced pupils are swallowing his irises and Dean really can’t stand to look at him. He failed Sam. He failed Cas. The cabin is so small and suffocating and Dean feels like he’s falling. The bottle of whiskey in his stomach is knocking at the door to his throat, politely asking if it could please come back up. Dean groans.

His baby, the only thing he managed to keep in pristine condition, the only thing who’s life he managed to keep from ruining, is parked in front of the cabin. Dean fishes the keys from his pocket and stands up. He passes Cas, who’s smiling now, serene and calm as he stares at Dean, watches him walk towards the door.

“I forgive you, you know,” Cas says, and, for a second, Dean can pretend he’s sober as he says it.

“I can’t. But thank you,” Dean smiles back, taking in the last look of his best friend he’ll ever see.

o O o O o O o

The drive isn’t long enough. Dean’s drunk and there’s no one on the road, not that he’s driving any differently. He can always drive well, even while he’s drinking. The speakers are blaring the frantic guitar of “”, and Dean’s almost enjoying the drive. The foggy grey of the sky’s peaking between the gaps in the trees.

The buildings are different than the ones Zachariah had shown him. Less warehouse, more mansion. Dean pulls up the long driveway and parks. Dean makes sure to turn off the headlights. It’s a weird feeling, knowingly stepping out of his car for the last time. His fingers linger on the handle as he shuts the door.

“Goodbye,” Dean whispers, giving the body of the Chevy one last pat.

The walk up the stepping stones feels like years. Dean doesn’t knock, just opens the door and steps inside. The large foyer sparkles and stretches up and up. He pauses, because, really, he wasn’t sure what he was expecting. Maybe to be dead already, honestly.

“Hello, Dean.”

Time stops for Dean. That voice. The devil’s voice in the flavor of Sam. That voice that had given Dean nightmares. That tone that Dean had really believed he’d never hear again. Dean inhales and the world comes swimming back into focus.

He had the colt, not that he thought it would help, but it was slightly reassuring in his back pocket nonetheless. Dean stepped forward, heading towards the nearest room, towards the voice, toward's  _Sam's_ voice.

Towards Sam.

Because every ending is the same.

**Author's Note:**

> I know this is barely complete, but hopefully someone likes it.


End file.
